


Pins and Needles

by CloeLockless



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe, Body Modification, Dark Harry, Dolls, F/M, M/M, Madness, Masturbation, Michael Jackson - Freeform, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Porn Watching, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloeLockless/pseuds/CloeLockless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Harry is a plastic surgeon. He's dedicated the past few years to finding the most perfect, flawless body. When he finally finds it in Draco, there's trouble ahead. TRANSLATION</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pins and Needles

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [De fil en aiguille](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/111721) by Nouchette. 



> Inspired by Prompt #77. Prompter: greyeyesbluetoo. Prompt: Not quite pretty enough. Suggested Character(s)/Pairings: anyone. Any optional extras: An addiction to surgery. Madness, deformity.
> 
> This fic is a translation. The original fic was written in French by Nouchette. 
> 
> Dear greyeyesbluetoo, when I saw your prompt I immediately thought of this perfectly horrific story I’d read years ago when I first started reading Drarry. Thanks to you, I went back and read N’s work again and I am thrilled she agreed to this translation! I hope it meets your taste! Many many thanks to S and the mods for their help!

**Pins and Needles**

_The package had arrived that morning in the mail. Upon seeing it, the man began to shake in anticipation, which was unusual for him. It didn’t take more than thirty seconds for him to rip the parcel open._

_Once the item was freed from the box, he hugged it with trembling arms, the rough, plastic human shape flopping against him. He breathed in the delicious factory smell and whispered to himself, “Where did I put the damn air pump?”_

_________________________________

Mrs Umbridge had lived over forty-three years in the same body and decided that it was time for a change. Forty-three years for her to realize that this nose in the middle of that blowsy face of hers was outrageously big, that was a long time, Harry Potter thought as the woman across him was whining and pleading, “Please Doctor, make me pretty!” Harry barely resisted answering that he wasn’t a miracle worker; instead, he gave her his best sympathetic smile.

“Let’s make sure we are on the same page, Mrs Umbridge. Our goal today is not to turn you into a completely different person. I am only going to smooth out a few imperfections so as to… enhance your natural charm!” he explained without meaning a third of his words.

It had been years since the Hippocratic Oath had meant anything to Harry. Of course, when he’d started as a junior practitioner, he had wanted to save the world and make people look better. He had believed in human beauty, in bodily perfection. But now, after having spent so much time hands deep in folds of female flesh, he’d lost all his nice illusions. The perfect body did not exist. This was what seven years in the trade had taught him.

Human beings were, in essence, ugly.

And he himself was no exception to the rule, he thought bitterly.

He couldn't stop thinking about it all day long, every single day. He would go to work in the morning, knowing he would only make people who were already ugly enough even uglier, and he would go home at the end of the day in the same state of mind. Then, in his high-end studio flat, he would quietly hang his suede jacket on the rack, sit down on the couch and spend the rest of the evening lamenting how vain his life was. The routine was regular as clockwork now.

Harry _had_ tried at some point to make his life more eventful by accepting to go out with his secretaries. But each meal with these women had invariably ended the same—by the time dessert was served, Harry couldn’t take it anymore and ended up telling the women about every single flaw on their excessively made-up faces. “If you would like, I can give you a discount on surgery,” he would try to amend as the women stormed away.

Now Harry had grown tired of looking for new secretaries so he had stopped asking them out on dates. So lately he had hired Hermione, a dedicated but extremely ugly young woman, married to boot, and pregnant, too. At least with her, there was no risk for him to be tempted in the future.

These were his lonely brooding thoughts whenever he wasn’t working. Had he not been such a hypocrite, he could have admitted that he was the only one to blame. But, like all doctors, hypocrisy was one of his favourite hobbies.

Today was no exception. In his hand, his second glass of vodka was getting emptier by the second without him figuring out how. It was already very late. As he grew more tired and drunk, Harry soon forgot about Mrs Umbridge and her bulky nose, and he was getting bored of vegging in front of the TV.

There was only one thing he craved to do now—crawl into his comfortable bed where Ginny was waiting for him, her legs open for him. He knew she would be there as he had set her up in this position before heading off to the clinic. Ginny was his own personal prostitute, his well-kept secret. She wasn’t a secretary, and she wasn’t even pretty, but at all time, without failing, she obliged him.

Very much so, she did. So much so that Harry had never heard her complain once.

Not even when he couldn’t get it up.

Not even when he would skip foreplay altogether.

Even less on those nights when he felt the urge to… dominate.

And so, every night, without an ounce of guilt, Harry would relax into her arms. He would whisper sweet words to her, and sometimes talk dirty. He would shower her with kisses, and then nip and bite her skin with passion. He would pant between her breasts, howl between her thighs. Faster and faster, harder, harder, his hips thrusting against hers, his forehead damp with sweat, until eventually, invariably, Harry would clench his teeth and come, spurting his hatred to the face of the fucking world.

Sitting in front of the television set, Harry was smiling already at the prospect of the night to come. But he wasn’t going to give in to the temptation just now. Pleasure is always the better for it when you’ve had to wait. That is why, with slightly darkened eyes and his jeans feeling a bit too tight, he zapped through the channels one last time. Obviously, at such a late hour, he would only find some reruns of mediocre shows. He watched without much interest.

He was about to turn the TV off when the last public channel grabbed his attention. It was scrambled but after a good punch on the decoder the pictures came back clearer and Harry could see a porn movie all in all rather ordinary, meant to make an estimated percentage of the stupid race drool over their screens. Today, Harry felt like joining the dumbass club. He loved trying to spot scars on the breasts of the actresses; he couldn’t help it.

For now, the movie was nothing but a close-up. A very close one indeed. Harry suspected the stud had undergone plastic surgery—not by his hands though, that was for sure. Harry would remember it if a thing that big had been thrust into his hands—no pun intended.

The camera zoomed out, revealing a pristine groin which an annoying mouth was defiling with kisses. It was incredibly vulgar, but Harry didn’t care; he enjoyed watching how this body arched so perfectly.

Just when the mouth engulfed the penis of this magnificent male, the camera switched to full shot; Harry could see the whole body lying on a bed too big for him and squirming under the assaults of a woman. Harry found her ugly, with her siliconed breasts and her Botoxed face.

And God, was the man gorgeous, in all his naked glory.

The actor’s blue eyes were dark with arousal. His forehead shone with perspiration. His blond hair sank into the creases of the sheets, so immaculate that they matched his hairless skin perfectly. And then there were those carved abs leading to lovely golden curls. Everything about this body looked perfect to Harry.

And as a plastic surgeon, it was an epiphany, such an inspirational sight. He made a mental note about each and every detail of this body, so that he could recreate its features later. That was it, he’d decided that tomorrow he was going to make people look as good as this.

That night, Ginny was waiting patiently in his bed. But somewhere out of the world, Harry wasn’t in the mood for her anymore. He’d long unzipped his trousers and his hand, buried deep in his pants, was running up and down his throbbing cock.

“Sorry, Ginny, not tonight,” he whispered to no one in particular.

Harry didn’t have time to get under the sheets before his whispering turned into loud panting. Just for this fantasy, he pictured himself taking the woman’s place in the movie, slowly kissing his way across the blond Greek god’s body. His own body grew sweaty, his hips undulated for a moment, and then he came with a shout in the palm of his hand.

Meanwhile, poor, stiff, neglected Ginny deflated, slowly, with a barely audible hiss.

…

Harry’s hands were shaking a little today. Usually it was nothing to be concerned about. But today, Harry Potter was holding a surgical knife, just about to change the future of Mrs Umbridge’s nose for ever. Needless to say that the slightest start would not be welcome in the least. Not that his patient was a star singer whose face was worth millions, but still… Being prosecuted for gross misconduct wouldn’t be so pleasant.

Which shape this nose should have after the surgery had been decided beforehand. Harry had the outline well in mind. He had gone over the file countless times. But suddenly, as the scalpels and knives cut into Mrs Umbridge’s flesh, Harry had an idea. What if he made it slimmer? A little more pointy at the end?

The fleeting vision of a perfect nose lost in a face just as perfect flashed through his mind. He followed the trail of his vision, letting his hands work on their own accord, as they shaped the woman's new face. Harry wasn’t sure he was in control of anything anymore, but as he sewed the last stitches, he was only sure of one thing:

Never before had he formed such a pretty nose!

Indeed, the nose was perfect. Small, pointed, perfectly shaped. The major problem however was that it was now set into a face much too big for it, under too protruding eyes. Of course Harry only realized it once Mrs Umbridge had had her bandages removed. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that the incredible nose he had made wouldn’t fit another face…

“What have you done to my nose, Doctor?” the patient exclaimed as she gazed at her new face in the mirror for the first time.

“Well, you see… Wasn’t that what you wanted? To have the same nose as Artika, the lead singer of the Weird Sisters?”

Mrs Umbridge seemed to like the answer. After a while longer gazing at herself she said, “That is true, now that I think about it…” and eventually she threw her arms around his neck. When Harry finally left her in her room, he could have sworn he’d heard her sing his praises. That’s when he finally allowed himself to sigh in relief, releasing the stress that had gripped him for a moment.

After all, the nose was perfect. It was the rest that wasn’t right.

…

Harry had just landed the biggest contract in his career. A mega pop-star, who was on holidays in England, had just entered his office with the intention of having his face redone. He had been on the covers of all magazines for years after having released a worldwide hit and performed one extraordinary dance move. Harry couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the man before him. He tried to stay professional all the while bowing and scraping at him.

“Well, Mr Jackson, what brings you to my office?”

The man eyed him over his tinted glasses. “Hasn’t my assistant told you?”

“No, I’m sorry. He must have been too busy…”

“He can never be too busy for this!”

The star turned around to face the two huge bodyguards behind him, and glowered at them. Harry gathered they were in for a harsh telling-off, but he didn’t let that worry him too much. His only concern today was to convince this man that he wanted Harry’s services.

“What I’d like,” Mr Jackson said. “is for you to smooth out from my face all features that look too… African-American.”

Harry almost choked on his saliva. He stared at that insanely famous face. The turned-up nose must have been the work of one of his colleagues. Not his, obviously. That nose was anything but perfect. His eyelids seemed to have had suffered the same fate, as did the protruding cheekbones and the mouth that looked too pinched. What was there left to do?

Harry tried to concentrate for a moment, trying to find any piece of this face to alter, in vain. He scanned everything down, but nothing seemed unscathed. The last remaining wall between the man’s face and the face of a white man was his skin colour.

And it just so happened that the memory of the pale skin of an arched body on white sheets came back to Harry’s mind.

What if?

A few weeks later, the pop star was topping the bill with a slightly pallid face, almost alien. But when would his monstrous transfiguration end? Unknowingly, Harry had invented a new race—that of grey people. But it couldn’t be worse than before, could it?

Nothing could be worse if it took him steps closer to the perfect body that kept haunting him.

…

That evening, there was to be a rerun of the movie on the private channel. He’d read so a few days before in the TV program at the end of the paper. Over the last six months he had been on the look out for hours to make sure he didn’t miss it if ever the movie was repeated. That is why, upon seeing the title in his weekly paper, Harry thought he might be hallucinating.

Harry hadn’t been able to think about anything else all week. All his surgeries had been haunted by the ghost of that body on the sheets and unable to take it anymore, he had even eventually bought a blonde wig for Ginny. Now, at night, he would take her from behind. The regular way, he could feel her breasts crushing against his chest and he came to hate the sensation…

It was way too imperfect.

Harry had just finished stitching up his last patient for the day; the woman was going to walk out of the clinic with brand new breasts which she certainly thought would make her pathetic life better. The surgery had gone marvellously well, although Harry had had to put himself in check not to do the opposite of what he was supposed to do and leave her with pectorals instead of implants.

Time was flying. There were only three hours and twenty-six minutes left until the beginning of the movie and he could already feel his hands going clammy. Harry had had difficulty fighting off an erection as he was thinking about it a few hours earlier, but the nurses wouldn’t have liked it one bit, as he had both hands in the breasts of a lady. Professionally speaking, it was tasteless.

Once he’d discarded his bloodied gloves, Harry was about to head home for a promising night. But Hermione Granger—his assistant and personal tyrant—wouldn’t have any of it. She stormed into his office, announcing a last-minute client.

“I’ll grant him twenty minutes, and not one minute more!” Harry snapped, unhappy that his well-calculated schedule should be disrupted.

“Don’t worry, Doctor, it won’t take longer than that,” said a warm voice down the hall.

Harry wanted to snap back defensively, but that was before the man revealed himself around the corner of a wall and Harry saw his face. The man was blond and Harry felt like he’d seen him before… Yes, he was positive he had, as this was the man that had been haunting his dreams for the last six months.

“Let’s go to my office,” Harry said with some difficulty. “I didn’t get your name?”

“Oh, my apologies. I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Draco, Draco Malfoy.”

Harry swallowed painfully. Even Draco’s voice was sweet to perfection. And although he’d managed to quell his erection all day, now he was definitely hard.

“What brings you here, Mister Malfoy?”

Draco seemed to shift uncomfortably for a moment and Harry could have sworn he’d seen him blush. Eventually, his too-perfect-to-remain-so patient took off his shirt, unveiling a perfectly chiseled chest which was marred by a bloodied compress.

This was Harry’s worst nightmare come true. What had been done to this gorgeous chest?

The compress actually covered a huge gash covered in dry blood. At first sight it seemed to have been made with a very sharp object and Harry didn’t think he was far from the truth in assuming the object in question had been a kitchen knife.

“You must help me, Doctor! My body… it’s my job!”

“How did this happen?”

“This is the stupidest story…”

“I have rarely heard smart ones.”

“Sometimes I play in movies, to… supplement my income. Let’s say that time the script was a bad one. A movie for people with… certain tendencies.”

Harry fought back a smile. Draco Malfoy seemed awfully ashamed to admit what he did for a living. If Harry hadn’t been one of his most faithful customers, he might also have been embarrassed hearing it. But picturing this man, spread out on a torture table, was quite an enjoyable thought. Too bad a woman holding a knife came automatically into the scene.

“Look,” Harry said to push the thought away. “I’m not going to lie to you. There will still be scars, but I’m sure there’s something I can do to make it better.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

“There’s a gap in my schedule Friday at 3. I can schedule an operation then, if it works for you.”

“Where do I sign?”

That night—surprisingly—Harry wasn’t all that interested in the film. He couldn’t stop thinking about the real, perfect body. If he didn’t give much thought to the appalling wound that marred the idyllic picture, Harry was sure he was in the most wonderful dream.

He couldn’t wait for Friday.

…

The perfect body lay on white sheets. The chest of Harry’s dreams was there for him to see and Harry thought he had never seen such an incredible sight. There was only one thing he wanted to do there and then—free the man’s blond hair from the sterilized cap and put away that awful oxygen mask that ate away the man’s face. Harry wanted to gaze at him forever.

He’d reached the high point of his career as a plastic surgeon. He had found in Draco Malfoy ultimate beauty, the flawless body…

He wanted to keep gazing at this work of art forever.

But there was a scratch in this statue of Apollo and today it was Harry’s duty to fix it. Reconstructive surgery, they called it. For Harry it was more than that—he was doing the world a service. He was about to save the eighth wonder of the world, and that was something.

He pressed the scalpel delicately into the supple flesh of the actor’s abdomen. His body didn’t seem to notice, as on the screen his heart rate remained steady. In the operation room, only Harry’s heart had skipped a beat. He had such soft skin, Harry thought, trailing his hands along the lines of the perfect body. The moment was so magical that Harry could even have sworn Draco Malfoy’s blood was of a prettier shade than any other.

It didn’t take more than two hours to erase as best as he could the scar from Draco Malfoy’s body. Of course there were still stitches on his chest, but Harry had made it better nonetheless.

What bothered him however, after having spent so much time so close to his dream body, was that mole on his shoulder, a bit too prominent to his taste. It wasn’t much, but it marred the perfection of the rest of the body. Thinking that it was the right thing to do, of course, Harry made sure he got rid of the mole for him. After all, what was wrong with that?

As he was about to cover the new operation with a piece of dressing, Harry also noticed that one of the young man’s pectorals looked higher than the other. Maybe it was just a trick of the eye, but it bothered him a lot. He hated leaving the work half done.

And while he was at it, Harry also got rid of a small lump of fat near the abs; Draco would thank him later. As far as he could remember, the perfect body was not fat.

There was also this birthmark on his groin, and then… and then…

…

Draco Malfoy woke up in a dark place. Soon he recalled the operation and didn’t worry. The nurses must have turned the light out to let him rest after the surgery. So Draco wasn’t worried, but he was so thirsty and his body hurt so much that he couldn’t take it very long.

He tried to call for help, but his entire face felt tight. All he managed to do was let out a groan that died at the back of his throat. Yet it seemed to work as he heard footsteps coming closer.

The light that poured in when the door opened was brutal on his face. Although his eyes were swollen, Draco could make out the arched outline of the doctor and he attempted a painful smile. “Hello, Doctor” would have to wait until his body felt less washed out.

“Good morning, Mister Malfoy. How are you feeling today?”

Still a little sleepy, Draco only grunted something that vaguely sounded like ‘Fine’. The surgeon seemed pleased and didn’t waste any more time before turning the light on, as the faint glow from the hallway wasn’t enough anymore.

When he saw where he was, Draco knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t in a hospital room! Indeed he was certain the nurses didn’t store their brooms and buckets in patients’ rooms. What was more, there couldn’t be spider webs in a sterilized environment… Draco couldn’t believe he really was in a broom cupboard. This had to be a nightmare.

“Where am I?”

“In your bed of course,” the doctor cheerfully replied.

“Answer me this instant!” Draco roared as best as he could. “What am I doing in this dump?”

“Oh, this? People mustn’t know, you see,” Harry said confidingly.

That’s when Draco Malfoy really started to panic. The man’s voice didn’t sound natural, as if Draco were drugged. As the doctor moved closer, Draco tried to struggle but his wrists seemed to be tied to the bars of his bed.

“What are you going to do to me, you freak!”

“You should be grateful. I made you a superb body. You won’t believe it when you see it.”

Indeed Draco couldn’t believe it. A few days later, Harry Potter started taking off the bandages. They weren’t only on his chest as they should have been, but also his back, his legs, and… his face.

Now, Draco was naked, in the cupboard, facing a swing mirror. The bandages had been taken off one by one, leaving him to face what was now his reflection… This wasn’t him anymore, it was… someone else. It was a faceless monster.

His body which used to be perfect was now covered in hideous scars. They streaked his entire chest.

His face was ruined, deformed, stretched out.

There was nothing left of him but gashes and bruises, but his damaged body wasn’t even strong enough to cry anymore. The Botox made it impossible.

“They cannot know, can they?” Harry Potter whispered with a salacious tone. “I’ve created the perfect body. But they can’t know…”

Can they?

_________________________________

_His guest had arrived the month before. Harry had been so excited upon seeing the result of his work that it was only a matter of twenty seconds before he fell in love. This was his very own doll, his best-kept secret._

_Ever since that day, Harry kept him jealously to himself, locked up in a cupboard of which only he had the key. Every day after work, he would sit in the couch, zap through the channels, looking forward to the moment when he would join Draco in bed, where the man waited for him, his legs huddled up._

_Harry knew he was there waiting, as he had chained him there in the morning._

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment here or at [Livejournal](http://hp-darkarts.livejournal.com/115091.html)


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